


A Step Without Feet

by LustMonster



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Domestic Violence, M/M, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, Theft, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-20
Updated: 2013-12-06
Packaged: 2017-12-27 02:49:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/973421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LustMonster/pseuds/LustMonster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Teens Charles and Erik live in a rough, run-down area. Disowned Charles stays with and supports his alcoholic mother, step-father, step-brother and younger siblings and Erik with his abusive, absent father. As time goes on, the boys' friendship develops beyond simply platonic. </p><p>FILL for this Prompt: http://xmen-firstkink.livejournal.com/9701.html?thread=21970405#t21970405</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from the poem "To Take a Step Without Feet" by Rumi

XAVIER, CHARLES F. SEX: M

DOB: 12/12/1997 AGE: 16

ADMIT DATE: 01/02/13

 

The plastic bracelet hung off Charles’ skinny, bandaged wrist like a trophy, the only plainly colored one amid vibrant, lumpy friendship bracelets far too large for him. It was too common a sight to warrant any real surprise from his best friend, who merely snorted and exhaled smoke in his face.

 

“You know, they say if you attempt suicide more than a few times, you’re not really trying.”

 

“You know, they say people with no sympathy for their best friend are real wankers, you know that?” Charles rolled his eyes and took a seat beside Erik on the low stone wall. “D’you have any idea how difficult getting five minutes alone in that place is?”

 

“I’ve got an idea.”

 

“Then you can understand why I hardly have long enough to die without someone noticing. Unless I try again, that is. Kurt said he isn’t paying for me to have my ‘sad time’ at the hospital anymore. Said he’d let me bleed out ‘next time.’ That man really has some faith in me, doesn’t he? ‘Next time,’ he says.”

 

“How about,” Erik turned, eyes almost soft as he tucked a lock of Charles’ hair behind his ear, “you don’t try again?”

 

Charles heaved a sigh. “You drive a hard bargain.”

 

“Mmhm. Besides, who else would watch shitty movies from RedBox with me?”

 

“You’re an arse.”

 

Erik grinned, slinging an arm across Charles’ shoulders. “Yeah, but I’m your ass, so there’s that.”

 

“Only because I’m stuck with you.”

 

“You wound me.”

 

“Then my job is done for the day.”

 

“Well if that’s the case, c’mon, then.” Erik hopped down, moving fluidly from one subject to the next. “Let’s go get tacos before Angel packs up. I’ll buy you one to celebrate.”

 

“What are we celebrating?”

 

“Your life.”

 

Charles bit his lip before following Erik down the block.

 

For midday, the street was oddly empty. By this time, most children were home from school and running around like holy terrors until the street lights came on. Without their shrieks, the rundown stretch seemed almost eerie despite the time. Charles shuddered, sped up to keep pace with an ever-unconcerned Erik.

 

“It’s too quiet,” he commented. Erik shrugged.

 

“Something shitty probably went down we just haven’t heard about yet.”

 

They had both lived there too long to be surprised, but it didn’t make it any less unsettling.

 

“What? Wanna hold my hand?” The older boy teased and Charles crossed his arms.

 

“And get jumped? No, thank you.”

 

They’d learned their lesson years ago, matching black eyes and bruised arms to show for it. Physical affection was for children. 

 

Charles took a tiny step to the side, leaving nearly an arm’s length between them as they passed abandoned storefronts bedecked in colorful graffiti. Angel’s tiny taco stand was situated in a vacant lot, the smell of cooking meet greeting the boys as they rounded the corner.

 

“Hey, you two,” she called, waving and standing up from the rickety lawn chair she’d been lounging in. Her dark eyes were twinkling, a grin on her bright pink lips. “The usual?”

 

“Yep.” Erik waited to reply until they were standing in front of her, winking. “Where’s Darwin?”

 

Angel snorted as she began preparing their tacos. “Ran down to the liquor store to check somethin’ out with Logan. Word is baby Summers is back from Afghanistan. Honorable discharge.”

 

“What’d he do, blow his own ass off?” Erik scoffed, handing a few crumpled bills over.

 

“Wouldn’t surprise me.” Angel rolled her eyes.

 

“Oh come now,” Charles piped up, “you know he joined up to go to college.”

 

“Doesn’t change the fact he’s a dumbass.” Erik shrugged, speaking through a mouthful of taco.

 

“You’re awful.” The Brit shook his head and thanked Angel before asking, “that can’t be the reason no one’s out, could it?”

 

“Nah.” Angel sat back, crossing her long, shapely legs. “Heard there was some sketchy character hangin’ ‘round the school, so that’s prob’ly why. Nothin’ you two need to worry about. Well, maybe you, Charles.” She winked and Charles stuck his tongue out.

 

“You know, I do believe we have other places to be,” he said imperiously, chin held high.

 

“Oh please.” She waved her hands. “Play Queen of England somewhere else, we all know you’ve been here a long ass time.”

 

“Now you’re just being rude.” Charles sniffed and she shrugged.

 

“Back to normal, then?” She inclined her head at his arms and he looked down.

 

“Back to normal.” He smiled. “Come on, Erik. I have to be home soon so I can make dinner for the little ones.”

 

“Can you walk yourself today? I promised to meet—”

 

“Say no more.” The younger teen held his hands up. “I’ll be fine. I mean, come on, who’d want to mess with this?” He gestured to himself, skinny almost to the point of malnourishment, threadbare blue cable knit sweater and patched jeans.

 

“Good point, you do look raggedy as fuck.” Angel agreed. “Nothing worth stealing.”

 

“Thank you, Angel.” Charles rolled his eyes. “I’ll see you two later.”

 

He turned, swallowed his pride. Of course Erik would rather hook up with one of his girls than walk his friend home. If Charles could find sexual partners so easily . . . no, he couldn’t blame Erik. The teen’s hands jammed into his pockets, crowding beside loose change, keys and his cellphone.

 

The walk to his apartment was uneventful. As Angel had said, he had nothing worth stealing, unless someone was desperate for a four year old droid with a cracked screen and wonky battery. He sighed and fitted his key into the lock, slamming the door open, then closed right behind himself.

 

As usual, the place was a barely contained mess. It was, of course, to be expected when one tried to fit three children, one pre-teen, two teenagers and two adults in a two bedroom apartment. He sighed, already picking up the sounds of Sharon rambling over the kids’ cartoons.

 

 _Xaviers_ , he caught, followed by, _your father_ and something which sounded like _miserly sonuvabitch_ but could have been a horribly slurred shout of _we were **rich**_ , her favorite topic to whimper about as she clung to her last fur.

 

“Yes, mum,” he murmured, looking through the stack of mail on the kitchen counter and separating out the bills, “once, we were rich.”

 

There were times—when they had to pick and choose which amenities they truly _could not_ live without or he had to patch the same hole in his jeans for the fifteenth time—that Charles dreamt of that grand manor in Westchester. Dreamt of his father with his gentle hands and graying scruff, the trace bits of silver at his temples. He would remember running through the echoing halls and banging on the piano with small hands while his elder sister watched on in amusement, calling him _sugar_ in the sweetest of voices.

 

But—

 

It did no good to think of that now. Sharon had made it clear on multiple occasions that Brian Xavier wanted nothing to do with her or, by extension, her spawn.

 

He tried not to let it hurt, digging a finger into his bandages and watching, with morbid pleasure, as red welled to the site.

 

“Jee-zus _Christ_ ,” came the last voice he wanted to hear, “You must be determined to go for it this time, ey Charlie-boy?” Cain’s dumb guffaw filled the kitchen and Charles pursed his lips, rounding on him, electric bill in hand.

 

“You laugh now, but if I died, you’d all be out on the street in a few short months and likely have no water, power or gas because the bills wouldn’t be paid.”

 

“You callin’ me dumb, pipsqueak?”

 

“Not in as many words.” Charles turned quickly before Cain had the time to recover and fly into a rage.

 

He exhaled at the sight of the living room, dropping his backpack and greeting his younger siblings warmly then watching them all realize he was there. Jean was, as ever, up first, rushing into his legs, Madelyn and Hank following quickly after, Raven giving him a nod from the sofa and continuing to paint her nails.

 

“Hullo, my doves.” He bent to hug them properly. “Have you all done your homework?”

 

Raven groaned, Jean and Madelyn pouted and then there was Hank, who lit up and nodded enthusiastically. At seven, he was smarter than Cain, possibly even brighter than Raven, a fact which Hank was both aware and proud of. Jean and Madelyn were four, beginning their second semester of kindergarten with something of a grudging wonder. Raven, twelve-though-claiming-thirteen exuded a world-weariness which was half an act, twenty-five percent reality and twenty-five percent a whisper for help.

 

Charles loved them all dearly.

 

He chuckled as he stood, holding a hand out. “Come on, everyone, let’s see it.”

 

“Don’t you have your own work?” Raven countered. “You _did_ just get home.”

 

Charles rolled his eyes, smiling sweetly. “Raven, darling, please.” He sighed. “It’s been a long day and I would very much like to get this done before dinner.”

 

If nothing else, Charles appreciated his sister’s ability to be so quick on the uptake, picking up a stack of work and handing it to him. Hank added his own while Madelyn and Jean gave him pages torn from coloring books and the journals tracking their penmanship as they went through the alphabet. Charles smiled and settled in for the night. 


	2. Chapter 2

It felt as though being friends with Charles had been less of a choice and more like cosmic intervention. Sometimes, he felt as though the universe smashed the two lonely little boys together if only to make them less so.

 

Erik had initially resisted.

 

He remembered, quite clearly, the first time he’d seen Charles, six and impetuous, looking more porcelain doll than actual child. Back then, the boy had still held onto some of the trappings of his former life, trudging through the cracked streets in leather shoes and crisp white shirts and knee-socks living well and truly up to the British schoolboy comparisons everyone made.

 

Charles was small, especially at that age, though he made up for it by being impressively quick, his short legs moving like rotors when they needed to. Even in retrospect, Erik still wasn’t fully sure how he’d managed to pick Charles up like a tic. It was as if one day Charles was simply someone he saw around the neighborhood—always alone, sporting his sharp little outfits—and the next Erik couldn’t the kid to stop following him. With time, grudgingly, Erik began to accept the other boy, even if they were several years apart in age and Charles asked too many questions about the bruises on his arms and back. But Charles was constant, and he couldn’t fault him.

 

Secretly, Erik had enjoyed the attention.

 

Since his mother died—wrong place wrong time sort of deal, he’d always been told—there had been no constant. His father spent most of his time working, the little he had left over was devoted to drinking himself numb and passing out on their threadbare couch or beating his son when he took notice of his existence.

 

_Your fault_ , he would shout, spittle flying from his lips, _useless monster_. Then he devolved into bellowing in German until he exhausted himself and went back to his usual mode of existence outside his job: sleeping. Gone was the man who’d taught his son the Hebrew alphabet and helped him light the menorah every Hanukkah. With Mama gone, his father cursed God, threw their religious affects into the garbage and refused to go to temple. The few times he’d caught Erik praying . . . well, Erik preferred not to recall.

 

Edie had been their light and without her, her men floundered.

 

Then, like a gift from God, came Charles.

 

Small, pale and sad came Charles.

 

With the younger boy at his side, Erik came to find a purpose. He realized he was a protector, that he would defend Charles because he couldn’t defend his mother.

 

****

 

There was a bruise on Charles’ cheekbone that was making Erik itch.

 

Every blow that fell upon him was a blow to the elder teen’s confidence. Failure smelled of the Brit’s blood and tasted like his tears. It was an itch he couldn’t scratch.

 

“You worry too much,” Charles said distractedly, stretching his arms above his head and yawning. The laser intensity of his gaze swept over and Erik felt picked apart, as though his companion was examining his inner thoughts. “It’s worse than it looks.”

 

“If you’d just let me sort Cain out . . .”

 

“Kurt would kill me. He hates Cain as much as I do but he hates you and me more.”

 

“You and I.”

 

“You and _me_.”

 

Erik sighed. “It pisses me off.”

 

“I know.”

 

“You should hit him back.”

 

“And break my hand on his face? No, I rather think not. I need to—”

 

“If you say watch what you say—”

 

“It’s true.”

 

“It makes you sound like a battered wife.”

 

“I _feel_ like a battered wife.” Charles sighed, plopping down on the ratty picnic blanket they’d laid out in the vacant lot. “I don’t know why we’re talking about this, nothing will change.”

 

“It bothers you.”

 

“Plenty of things bother me, Erik. It bothers me that Raven barely has any clothes that fit her because we can’t even afford to go thrifting until Kurt gives me money for the household—God knows when that’ll be. It _bothers me_ that Jean and Maddie hardly know their father. But none of those things can be changed by me at this moment so I see no point in complaining about circumstances I cannot change.”

 

“It’s better than keeping them in.”

 

“Don’t worry, darling,” Charles said flatly, “I won’t try to kill myself again.”

 

“That’s not what I mean.”

 

“Isn’t it?”

 

“No. Charles, I worry about you, alright.” It barely came out past his façade. “You’re not okay.”

 

Charles pursed his lips as he began packing his things away, ramming them into his bag willy-nilly and Erik sighed.

 

“You can’t just run away when people say they’re concerned.”

 

“Not running, Erik, but I can when it’s you. Don’t tell me _I’m_ not okay and try to make me talk about my feelings when you act like yours don’t exist.”

 

“When did this become about me?”

 

“Isn’t it always? I worry about you, Erik. I want to help you but you won’t let me.”

 

“I’m fine.”

 

“No, you aren’t.”

 

“We weren’t talking about me,” Erik said insistently and Charles stepped on his foot.

 

“I don’t want to talk about this. I have responsibilities but I came because I wanted to see you but if we’re just going to have this conversation again—”

 

“No, Charles.” Erik sighed. “Just sit down, c’mon. Sit down, relax.”

 

“No more talk of Kurt or Cain or anything?”

 

“None.”

 

By increments, Charles relaxed, settling back and stretching his legs out. “I hate when you get chatty.”

 

“Hmph.”

 

“Much better.” They shared a Look and Erik shook his head. Emotions truly did not suit him.


	3. Chapter 3

Times like these made Charles wish they could hold hands. Made him want to reach across the gaping space between them and grasp Erik’s warm fingers in his own. It was almost surreal, racing forward, lungs gasping, feet slapping against the cracked sidewalk, legs pumping, backpacks bouncing, tears streaming down their wind-smacked cheeks, hair falling into utter disarray. . . Charles was nearly soothed, encased in his own little world with no one but Erik. Who was, honestly, the only person he could imagine himself being trapped in another world with.

 

Of course, there was little to nothing soothing about fleeing the store your adrenaline-junkie best friend had stolen from, but one could understand the sentiment.

 

“You’re bloody insane!” He called, but Erik was laughing, wholly unconcerned. Then again, Erik didn’t have to look after a small army of little siblings. Then again, Erik already had a rap sheet longer than his forearm. And, best of all, Erik had no sense of self-preservation.

 

Charles felt increasingly like an enabler.

 

But—Erik’s hand was reaching back, large and warm and inviting, even through the glove, and nothing else mattered but that point of contact.

 

“C’mon, pipsqueak!”

 

Charles laughed, and it was as if Erik’s energy transferred between their palms as they ran, ducking through alleys and side streets until they were reaching the residential area, the sirens fading as they grew closer to the rundown house Erik and his father shared.

 

Tuesdays, Jakob worked overtime, leaving the Lehnsherr homestead empty from noon to noon. It was the only day they spent time there, the only time Charles was allowed in and Erik was home before it grew dark. They slowed down once they hit the block and Erik let Charles’ hand drop like a dead fish, as though it had burned. The gloves came off, slid into jeans and were replaced in bare hands by Erik’s keys.

 

The touch still burned like a brand.

 

Even through gloves.

 

Erik, cool as you please, finished the walk with a look of calm ease, walking up the path to his home without a glance either way, fitting the key into the lock and letting the two in.

 

“Jesus Christ,” was the first thing out of Charles’ mouth when the door slammed shut and they shared an echoing high five.

 

“D’you have any clue how much I can get for all this shit?” Erik was grinning like a maniac as he led the way up squeaking stairs to his room where everything was unceremoniously dumped from his bag. An array of electronics and jewelry filled the young man’s narrow bed and for a moment, the pair felt like pirates.

 

“Can any of it be traced?”

 

“Stop being a bitch about it.” Erik rolled his eyes. “This is awesome, Charles. And since you were my lookout, I’ll split the cash half with you. C’mon, don’t look at me like that, we both know you could use the extra money. First of the month’s comin’ up . . .”

 

“Don’t try to tempt me using my rent.”

 

“I’m _trying_ to help you, you stubborn little prick.”

 

“You’re _trying_ to make me an accessory to theft. Which—”

 

“You already are. Being my lookout? Running? You all but endorsed the idea and I mean c’mon, d’you really wanna play bitch for some asshole with neck tattoos in jail?”

 

“County jail.”

 

“Still jail. But, hey, if you—”

 

“Stop being an arse.”

 

“Of course, your majesty.” Erik scoffed, separating the loot into categorized piles.

 

If nothing else, he was quick and efficient, long fingers setting about the work with a practiced ease. This wasn’t Erik’s first tango with thievery, much to Charles’ continued dismay. But the “I wish you wouldn’t”s grew old and annoying and fear of Erik’s ostracism far outweighed all else.

 

“Stop it,” the older teen snapped, lifting his head. “Your disapproval is burning a hole in my back. If you’re gonna be like this, you can go home.”

 

Charles bit his lip. “Do you want me to home?”

 

“Did I stutter?”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“You should be.” He held up a gold watch, grinning like a maniac. “This is great. Stop pretending it isn’t.”

 

“As you wish.”

 

The Brit settled in, legs crossed, on Erik’s beanbag, watching through his lashes as his best friend began totaling up the value of everything he’d stolen, then subtracting the amount that would be shaved off selling it en masse on the street.

 

“The way I see it,” he said finally, “we’ll get three hundred bucks apiece.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Probably. This is all worth a lot more but who knows. You know Azazel can be a dick about this shit, especially when it’s still hot.” He affected a smarmy Russian accent, “‘You know I have to wait, Tovarish, until the heat calms, all this merchandise collecting dust, the price is fair, no?’ And of course the bastard know I can’t go anywhere else.”

 

“Three hundred can go a long way,” Charles said soothingly and Erik snorted.

 

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Doesn’t make it any less shitty.” He shrugged. “New subject.”

 

Charles was worrying at his lip, worrying over Erik, but what else was new. “Er, how are the girls?”

 

Erik’s ‘round the clock girls he kept dangling on a string for whenever he wanted them. Girls who were aware of one another yet each pretended she was his One and Only.

 

Charles kept his disapproval at a low hum.

 

“Fine.” A shrug. “There. Why?”

 

“You wanted a new subject.”

 

“So you chose, what you so delicately called, ‘my harem’?”

 

“I was annoyed.”

 

“Don’t be mad at me cos you have no game.”

 

Charles pursed his lips. “I do so have game.”

 

“Telling a girl she’s a mutant isn’t exactly the best way to seduce her. Or that she reminds you of a DNA helicase because she could unzip your genes. Girls don’t want science, they want . . .”

 

“You.”

 

“Yeah.” Erik shrugged.

 

“Well, seeing as I cannot, as fate would have it, be you, I suppose I shall have to muddle through somehow.”

 

“I’m sure you’ll go buckwild when you finally find some ‘nice girl’ to marry.” There was an edge of bitterness and Charles’ worrying drew blood. “You know what else isn’t attractive?”

 

“Numerous suicide attempts?”

 

“Yep.”

 

“Thank you for that.”

 

“Any time.”

 

Charles closed his eyes. There were days he wished Erik could be more understanding. Days he wished _anyone_ could attempt to be understanding. More and more often, this occurred, yet there they were, the same as always.

 

“Erik?”

 

“What?”

 

“Do you ever regret being my friend?”

 

That made him pause, turn his head, frowning. “What sort of stupid question is that?”

 

“I dunno.” Charles shifted awkwardly, averting his eyes. “It was stupid.”

 

“I know, that’s what I said.” Erik rolled his eyes. “Of course not, idiot.”

 

“Alright.”

 

Their gazes met, briefly, and there was something gentle, almost vulnerable in the way Erik looked at him. “Hey, don’t look sad, alright? Of course I don’t regret it. You’re my best friend, Charles. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You know that, right?”

 

“I suppose I ought to.” Charles couldn’t shake the feeling of having exposed a vital artery, a chink in his armor.

 

“Damn right you oughta.” The tenderness had all but fled, replaced by Erik’s usuaul casual indifference. “I don’t ever want you thinking stupid shit like that again, okay?”

 

“Yeah, of course not.” He was flushed, discombobulated. He felt silly, like one of Erik’s girls asking if he loved her. There was never any question about the answer. There was no point in it. _I love you_ , something in him was whispering, _you gigantic oaf_.

 

****

 

Despite his protests, Charles found he truly _could not_ say no to the extra money. Three hundred had become five, Erik winking as he counted the bills into Charles’ hand, a thick stack of twenties and tens, a solitary hundred amid it all.

 

There was an aborted tear in his eye. Padding in the envelope he hid money in. Half for the emergency fund—which doubled as Raven, Jean, Hank and Madelyn’s collective college fund—and half for the bare minimum of spoiling. A cheap chemistry set for Hank, a four pack of bras to replace the ones Raven had outgrown and new shoes for the twins.

 

He found a spare smile, donned it with glee, took a day off work to take the little ones to the museum. There was a secret serenity, a new feeling he couldn’t quite name which came with having someone care for him. It was silly, he knew, seeing as Erik spent half his time looking out for Charles, but there it was.

 

There was money for cleaning supplies and Charles reveled in the scent of pine sol and bleach in the tiny apartment, happy for the ache in his knees and back from bending and squatting. He was so very happy.

 

Of course, it helped that Kurt was off on a bender with his latest girlfriend, which—as always—sparked a different amiability in Cain he never possessed when his father was around. There was a gruff, “thanks” at the sight of bacon on his plate and a grudging agreement to play human jungle gym for the twins.

 

Charles was delighted yet realistic.

 

It couldn’t last.

 

It never lasted.

 

But, while it did, he planned to let himself feel warm.

 

****

 

“D-D’you have a-any idea how l-l-long we’ve been friends?” Charles’ voice was tiny, a tremulous breath against Erik’s ear. The younger teen was shivering despite being cuddled in Erik’s thickest sweater and swaddled in blankets, the bed squeaking minutely beneath them.

 

“Mm . . . a long ass time.” Erik turned onto his side, facing Charles though he could barely see him in the dark.

 

“Alm-m-most a decade.”

 

“Like I said: a long ass time.”

 

There was a snuggling sound of mirth from Charles, his teeth shining out of the gloom.

 

“How do—do I p-put up with y-y-you?”

 

“No one else will.”

 

“F-Fair enough.”

 

Erik chuckled, rubbing a hand over Charles’ cheek. The other boy had arrived out of the blue, shivering in his flannel pajamas and nothing else. “Kurt is home,” was all he’d said when Erik—quietly, lest they wake Jakob and send him into a righteous fury—asked what had happened, why he was there. It was generally agreed upon that they met in neutral territories (see: outside their homes) with the exception of their Tuesdays.

 

Today was Thursday.

 

Charles shouldn’t have been there.

 

But Charles had nowhere else to go.

 

“I’m s-s-sorry about th-this.”

 

“Don’t mention it. I couldn’t exactly turn my best friend away when he looked so pitiful.”

 

The Brit made a rude noise in the back of his throat, tensing when a loud snore came from the other room. They held their breaths for what felt like a year, waiting, listening. Erik’s ears were attuned to his father’s various nighttime noises. No creak within their apartment would be missed or mislabeled.

 

“We’re fine,” he breathed, running his fingers over Charles’ hair. “We’re fine.”

 

Charles sniffed and took it as an invitation to cuddle closer with mumbled, “you’re warm,” before he was crowding Erik completely.

 

“You’re a child.”

 

And there was that cheeky little grin with the teeny gap, a small imperfection which amplified the effect.

 

“This is so gay,” he grumbled, dutifully slinging an arm across Charles’ middle and tucking his head beneath Erik’s chin.

 

“No homo,” Charles replied promptly, words slurred and sleepy. He shifted, breath ghosting across Erik’s collarbones. “Mmf, very homo.”

 

That was all it took. Two words, and he was gone.


	4. Chapter 4

Erik could list on one hand the great Events which had shifted his world loose of its axis: losing his mother and meeting Charles. Oftentimes, he likened himself to a stone buried in a riverbed. Naturally, the rushing of the river wore him down over the years, but only choice events could truly shake his foundation, leave visible marks.

 

Now, there was this.

 

He wondered, recklessly, pacing, shouldn’t this be happening later? Gay crises were supposed to happen later on in life, upon meeting a man during your fifteenth year of stagnant marriage and wondering if it’s latent homosexual tendencies or simply being so bored anyone who shows interest becomes “fuckable.”

 

Gay crises were not supposed to happen to him.

 

Not when the darling little twink was _Charles_.

 

It was so small, at the beginning, noticing little things he never would have before. They were so minute; streaks of red darting through Charles’ hair when he was backlit or the length and elegance of his pale neck. For once, the delicate, easily burnt skin was a thing of beauty instead of something to tease about.

 

They had never been bashful around one another in the nude. It was typical for Charles to emerge from the bathroom in only his towel on Tuesday nights. It was, however, atypical, for Erik to look. To notice pert, dusky nipples or the shadowed vee of prominent hipbones, delicate swoops of bone and muscle visible on his chest.

 

Charles was beautiful.

 

Perhaps if he looked more like Cain, this wouldn’t be so difficult.

 

“. . . Capri Suns? Erik? Er, Erik, are you alright? Erik!”

 

He jerked to attention, coming down from staring distractedly in the general direction of Charles’ ass.

 

“What’s up?” Erik straightened, casting a surreptitious glance down to make sure he wasn’t sporting a hard-on before he could properly face his best friend.

 

“Could you pass me the bag with the Capri Suns?”

 

Charles was smiling, an edge of good-natured exasperation to his voice. He looked like Mr. Mom in his wrinkled button-up and lumpy, fraying cardigan, formless jeans, hair in disarray and what looked like a juice stain splattered across his thigh. It was domestic and far too mature for a sixteen year old.

 

He caught the bag like a pro, continuing that mode as he effortlessly corralled the three children to dispense Capri Suns and Ziploc baggies of broken graham crackers. As the children ate, Charles handled damage control, taking a bristle brush to Jean and Madelyn’s hair, combing out the snarls and sand with a practiced hand.

 

“Charles,” Jean piped up, keeping her head utterly still as her brother plaited her curls, “can we go t’ Scott’s for dinner? They’re gonna have dinner for Alex!.”

 

There was a flicker of relief in those eyes and he was nodding. “Of course, Jeannie. I’ll have to iron your nice dresses and we’ll put your hair up, shall we?”

 

“Mmhm!” She reached to squeeze Madelyn’s hand and the twins’ delight seemed to ooze every which way.

 

“And you’ll be taking your brother, I assume?”

 

“No!”

 

“Why ever not?” A single, perfect brow arched.

 

“Hank’s boring,” Madelyn mumbled.

 

Charles exhaled loudly through his nose. “Maddie, that wasn’t nice, say you’re sorry to Hank.”

 

“Sorry, Hank,” she averted her eyes and the boy shrugged.

 

“I don’t have to go,” Hank said, forcing a small smile. “I want to watch a documentary on PBS later.”

 

“Well then,” It was easy to hear in his voice, Charles shifting into problem-solving mode, the gears whirring in his intonation, movable parts snapping into place as he concluded, “if I can get Raven out, the two of us shall simply have to have a boys’ night.” He reached down, rumpled Hank’s hair and watched a smile bloom across his brother’s face.

 

“Now, girls. Were you invited to stay the night?”

 

“No.” The twins chorus and Charles nodded.

 

“Then you need to ask Mr. Logan to bring you two home, alright? No walking alone or with Scott or Alex, _Mr. Logan_ , understand?”

 

“Yes, Charles.”

 

“There’re my girls.” There was an undercurrent of pride as he straightened, dusting imaginary sand from his jeans. “Now, let’s get you lot ready for the evening.”

 

***

 

_You’re bleeding_.

 

It had come in the form of a neatly folded square of paper ripped from the corner of a notebook page. The paper was ripped beneath the ‘y,’ ink fading at the ‘g,’ everything gone over twice in Charles’ neat hand.

 

Erik frowned, tilted his head to get a look at the younger teen, who brushed his fingers across his forehead as though fixing unruly bangs.

 

The second note almost flew past Erik’s desk.

 

_Bathroom_.

 

Before he could protest, Charles as raising his hand, derailing Dr. Bradley’s impassioned speech.

 

“Yes, Mr. Xavier?”

 

“May I be excused to the restroom, sir?”

 

“Of course, Xavier.”

 

Charles slipped from the room like a specter, leaving Erik no choice but to wait five minutes before following.

 

The boys’ bathroom on the third floor was empty save for Charles, his tiny first-aid kit open and ready on the cracked edge of a sink.

 

“Ready for me, Nurse Xavier?” Erik teased. Charles turned, lips pursed.

 

“Don’t be a jerk.” He sighed and held up an alcohol wipe. “What happened?”

 

“The usual.” Erik shrugged. “It’s not as bad as it looks. The old man’s gettin’ less precise in his old age.”

 

“He’s a brute.”

 

Erik didn’t respond, bending forward instead to give Charles a better look at the swollen gash. The Brit’s fingers were gentle, though the alcohol stung no matter how it was blown on. There was a concentrated worry in Charles’ eyes, his expression screwed in concern.

 

“Don’t be such a worry wart, I can take it.” Erik prodded at Charles’ tickle spot, but to no avail.

 

“You shouldn’t have to ‘take it,’ Erik.”

 

“Says the battered wife.”

 

Charles pursed his lips, his press a little firmer, less delicate. It was embarrassment more than anger, a flush of shame playing around his ears. They shared no words as Charles cleaned and bandaged the wound with practiced efficiency and Erik pretended not to notice the black-and-blue handprints on the other teen’s wrists.

 

“How was your boys’ night with Hank?” Erik asked slowly, the word coming out tangled and heavier on the accent than he’d allowed since kids started calling him a kraut in elementary school.

 

“Fine.” Charles bit his lip around a smile. “We ended up watching a documentary on PBS then Masterpiece Theater. It was nice. The girls ended up staying at Logan’s. Raven stayed at Irene’s.”

 

“And . . .?” Erik prompted.

 

A shrug.

 

“Mum stayed in the room, Kurt was in and out and Cain sat in for the latter half of the evening. It was . . . nice.”

 

Pleasant nostalgia suited Charles. An ethereality drifted across his eyes, a softness dulling the harder edges he’d accumulated through the years, only truly apparent when they were gentled. There was a tiny smile barely a foot away, a tiny furrow of concentration between dark brows.

 

It was almost too easy to grasp Charles’ hips, tug him forward that little space and kiss him breathless.

 

_Plink_.

 

_Plink_.

 

One of the sinks was dripping, the only break in the silence.

 

Charles’ chest was heaving but no sound came from his parted lips.

 

There was a flutter, a tiny spasm at the corner of his mouth before it closed, lips continuing to twitch as though the words he stifled were fighting to get out. His footfall was loud, echoed against the tiled walls.

 

Before apologies could be formulated, he was gone, leaving both Erik the first-aid kit balancing precariously on the cracked edge of a sink.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many apologies for the wait! I've been utterly swamped IRL but hopefully the next update will come sooner, though I make no promises. Thank you a thousand times over to everyone who's commented, I appreciate every single one of you!

Being aware of Charles’ amazing avoidance skills was one thing. Being subjected to them, however, was entirely different.

 

Erik folded his arms, cigarette burning down between his teeth, the ash creeping up toward the filter. Something about his expression must have betrayed his utter seriousness, as those who passed on the sidewalk gave him a wide berth.

 

It had been three weeks.

 

Three stupid, solitary weeks since that heat of the moment kiss.

 

Three weeks since Charles had even glanced in his direction, acknowledged his existence.

 

Three weeks and he could still feel Charles’ soft mouth beneath his, yielding, the shuddering breath that had passed between their mouths.

 

He’d tried to drown it, kissing each of his girls until they were giggling and breathless, their mouths bruised, yet it stayed, a semi-pleasant specter to remind him of all he’d ruined.

 

A stray breeze attached a traveling plastic bag to his leg briefly, startling him out of reverie.

 

At the end of the block, Raven was dithering.

 

Upon noticing Erik noticing her, the second eldest of the Xavier-McCoys (Marko would be added should he ever sire a child on Sharon for Charles to raise) lifted her head and strode forward as though there had been no indecision. Between painted nails, Raven held her house key like a weapon, prodding out between middle and forefinger, supported by her thumb. She brandished the silver key with a hard look at the older boy, flicking a dyed lock of crimson hair behind her shoulder.

 

“Charles doesn’t want to see you,” she said bluntly, rolling kohl-rimmed eyes as showily as possible and making a point to bump shoulders as she attempted to brush by.

 

“Well, I want to see him,” Erik said with a purse of his lips, grasping Raven’s forearm in a vice-grip.

 

“Well, I don’t care.” She had pitched her voice lower, mocking him remorselessly. “Fuck off.”

 

“Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?” He asked dryly, hardly flinching when her foot rammed down on his toes.

 

“Erik, stop, seriously.” There was a seriousness in her tone which gave him pause. “I don’t know what you did, but Charles is really upset. Just let ‘im be for a while, ‘kay?”

 

“You know I can—”

 

“Stop being a selfish dick.” The level of unimpressed Raven was operating on almost made him proud.

 

It was almost enough to make him reconsider bothering Charles right up until he heard Jean and Madelyn singing “Wheels on the Bus” enthusiastically. Like a bloodhound scenting the kill, he perked up, zeroing in on his best friend, who had paused in the middle of the sidewalk, worrying at those lips that had haunted him.

 

Anyone else, Erik would have been concerned about him running, but Charles’ dedication to the little ones made certain he would continue walking with them. Of course, the same Xavier Pride which had dragged Raven into confrontation likely led him in equal force.

 

All that mattered was that Charles was walking his way.

 

Back straight, head held high, walking like the imperious little brat that had waltzed into his heart so many years ago.

 

Charles may have been avoiding him, but wasn’t so petty as to ignore Erik’s presence, though the acknowledgement was little more than the bob of a head. He tensed when his bicep was grabbed and Raven—she was still there, then—squawked out a protest quickly silenced by a Look.

 

“Raven, darling, take this lot upstairs, make sure they have their snacks, alright?”

 

“Charles . . . ?”

 

“I’m alright.” The smile was forced, everyone present knew, but she knew better than to argue with that resigned tone. One by one, the Xavier-McCoys shuffled inside, only Hank and Raven seeming to understand the situation on some level.

 

“Let’s go for a walk,” Erik suggested, clearing his throat and Charles folded his arms.

 

“Let’s not.”

 

“Charles—”

 

“No.”

 

“Why are you being like this? It was just—”

 

“‘Just’ a kiss?” Charles tipped his chin up, eyes narrowed. “Exactly. It was ‘just’ a kiss.”

 

“Exactly.”

 

“I can’t.”

 

“Try.”

 

“You can’t—Erik—I’m your _best friend_ , d’you understand that? I am _not_ one of your girls. And you are welcome to flex those urges to, er, _experiment_ , but not on me. I won’t be your gay experience to regret in the coming years.”

 

“Charles, no.” Erik ran a hand through his hair, the truth of emotion knotting in his gut and weighting itself down, refusing to come up. “You’re—I know you’re my best friend. And I didn’t just—it wasn’t just—shit.

 

“What I’m trying to say is I don’t—I don’t think of you like I think of them. I l—” he choked, “I like, I mean I guess I like you.”

 

“You guess,” Charles said calmly, no emotions betrayed by his expression.

 

“I know. You’re more than just one of my girls. I want to—I didn’t just kiss you for the experience. I kissed you because I wanted to. To kiss _you_ , not just any guy. I wasn’t curious about guys, I’m curious about you.”

 

Charles flushed to the roots of his hair.

 

“This—you—you sound like a horrid gay romcom,” he spluttered, avoiding Erik’s eyes at all cost.

 

“Are you calling me cheesy?” Erik demanded, severity returning in full force.

 

“Yes.” Charles began laughing, tears gathering in his eyes. “Yes, I absolutely am.”

 

“Stop laughing,” the older teen growled, “I’m being serious. Stop avoiding me. I want you.”

 

“You—Jesus, Erik.” Charles was walking away, now, shoulders rigid, head held high and straight. Each step was a stomp as he marched them away, around the block, down an alley and into one of the vacant lots they went to when they wished to speak privately. Once upon a time, a little house had sat there, blocked in by apartments on three sides, but a rash of arsons had seen it burned to the ground, leaving only the foundation and scorched brick. The entrance had been boarded up but the plywood was flimsy and gave way when Charles tugged, the nails barely inches into brick.

 

The earth had begun to reclaim the interior, spindly blades of grass shooting up from where carpet or perhaps wood floors had once been. A pair of ratty beanbags stuffed into a corner spoke to how much time they spent there, though neither made any moves to sit there. Charles was pacing.

 

“You can’t just—you can’t do this, Erik.”

 

“Do what, Charles? Stop pacing just—just calm down, okay?”

 

“Do not tell me to calm down.” Charles paused his pacing, gesturing helplessly between them. “I don’t—I don’t know what to do with this, Erik. I understand pining and I can live with that but _this_ , this is out of my depth. You—I—I can’t be one of your girls, Erik. Someone you just want to sleep with and I—I can’t lose you, Erik. And if that means denying myself, denying you, then—”

 

“Charles, Charles stop, please.”

 

Erik sighed, closing the distance between them to rest his hands on Charles’ shoulders. “I don’t just want to fuck you, alright? I want all of the . . . other stuff too. The kissing and—Jesus, if you want, the snuggling and the stupid bullshit and—”

 

“Erik Lehnsherr, don’t you dare say you want to be my boyfriend.”

 

“I won’t say it, then.”

 

A cornucopia of emotions flitted across Charles’ face, settling on disbelief. “You do no—”

 

“Stop talking.”  Erik brought his mouth down on Charles’ the lips beneath his as soft and yielding as they’d been in his fantasies. For once, memory was nowhere near as wonderful as the real thing. His fingers encircled Charles’ wrists, using his superior height and weight to steer them back against one of the sturdier walls, pressing a knee between Charles’ trembling legs.

 

Charles kissed like a virgin. His kisses were hesitant, uncertain, though no less enthusiastic for it. Their noses bumped often, teeth clacking, a particularly reckless nip drawing blood, but it was everything. Everything and more. Charles was sweet and soft, gasping when their mouth separated for mere milliseconds, a gentle, sighed, “oh” fanning across Erik’s thin lips when one of his hands was freed so Erik could grasp his bottom. One leg had locked around the older teen’s waist, the growing bulges in their jeans rubbing together through layers of cotton and denim.

 

“Ow!” Charles was laughing, giddy, his cheeks flushed beautifully as he rubbed the back of his head. A particularly zealous tilt had smacked it against the bricks, breaking the moment for one they were more familiar with.

 

“Good job, Xavier.” Erik snorted. “I’m sure you’ll have a nice knot on your head later.”

 

“Your fault.”

 

“ _My_ fault? How’s it my fault you were tossing your head around like a porn star and hurt yourself?”

 

The pinch he received was well worth the mortified flush. “I was _not,_ Erik!” The Brit squawked. “Honestly.”

 

“Honestly.” Erik shrugged.

 

“Jerk.”

 

“Tell me something I don’t already know, babe.” A wink.

 

“We can’t tell anyone about this,” Charles murmured. “We’d be—well, it would be awful.”

 

Another shrug. “It’s no one else’s business what we do anyway.” He tilted Charles’ chin to steal another kiss. “You’ve always been mine anyway.”

 

“And you’ve always been mine.” Charles smiled, a defiant twinkle in his eyes. “Even before you knew it.” He winked and Erik wondered if he’d ever been so infatuated.

 

“You’re something else, you know that?”

 

“I’ve been told.” He leaned up for another kiss. “The kids need me to make dinner.”

 

“Now?”

 

“Mmhm.”

 

“Are you sure?” Erik pressed a butterfly kiss to Charles’ fluttering pulse. “Couldn’t you wait?” He punctuated each word with a kiss, scattering them across that soft, pale throat.

 

“Much as I would love to say here and do . . . this, I really do need to go.” Charles sighed. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

 

“I’ll be there.”

 

They clung to one another fiercely for another ten minutes before Charles finally broke away, his hair mussed, lips bruised and swollen, a sheen of saliva coating them. A bruise peeked out on one pale collarbone and Erik laughed as Charles scampered away, his footsteps fading until only the heat in his guts remained to signify the other boy had ever been there.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I want to apologize for the wait. I'm currently in a huge transitionary period and at the height of it all my laptop suffered some water damage so I'm onto a spare. which will more than likely have an effect on my productivity, for which I'm very sorry.  
> Secondly, I want to thank everyone who took the time to comment so far, everything has been so kind and heartwarming, it's really driven me to get this chapter out. I appreciate every comment and every kudos so very much and I really hope this lives up to everyone's expectations!

There was something about the sneakiness of their relationship that made it all the more alluring.

 

Kisses stolen in the back of the locker room or in deserted bathrooms during class tasted sweeter than anything overt ever could. They never needed to vocalize their feelings, a glance over the top of a textbook or squeezed thigh said it all. As far as anyone else knew, nothing had changed. Erik flirted shamelessly, if only to see the crease of displeasure between Charles’ brows, the flare of jealousy which caused the other boy to grip his books tighter. Charles remained as outwardly sexual as a monk, drab as a nun, his hickeys covered by high-collared shirts.

 

Even more fervently, the boys anticipated their Tuesdays. With the blinds drawn and doors locked, they found it was nigh on impossible to get enough of each other. Especially with so much territory left unexplored.

 

By the second week, Erik had mapped, conquered and re-conquered Charles’ mouth. He could differentiate between varying strangled sounds and knew just where to touch to make Charles gasp and come in his jeans.

 

But that was all.

 

At the barest suggestion that Erik wanted to remove an article of clothing from his boyfriend, Charles spooked, going both physically and emotionally flaccid.

 

“Erik,” the other boy would mumble, shaking his head. Then, sweetly, “you don’t want to see.”

 

Charles guarded his modesty with a mixture of sanctity and shame. He covered the marks Erik left with high collars and a virginal aura which made certain no one ever bothered to look. There were days he would wince when Erik grasped wrist or touched the insides of his thighs and it stung.

 

It broke after a month.

 

“I don’t get why you keep on with that shit,” Erik gestured toward Charles with a stab of his cigarette in the air between them, shaking his head.

 

The tune Charles had been humming broke off as he looked up from his work. “What?”

 

“The cutting and burning or whatever the fuck you do-ing. You have me now, aren’t you happy?”

 

There was a frown. “Of course I’m happy, Erik. Happy with you, with us. Not with everything, but with us, yes.”

 

“So why do you feel the need to—?”

 

“Oh my god, _Erik_.” Charles sat up straight, rolling his eyes. “Did you honestly think being in a relationship with you would ‘cure my sadness’ or some ridiculous, idealistic nonsense like that? Have you been reading Raven’s teen romance novels, my God. I’m bipolar, not—”

 

“Says the _counselor_ —”

 

“Erik, _please_.” Another sigh, long and drawn out. “Please don’t dismiss me.” It was said softly, little more than a whisper.

 

“Let me see.”

 

“They—”

 

“No secrets between us, remember?”

 

“This isn’t a secret, it’s—”

 

“Do you want me to strip too?”

 

“Don’t—”

 

But Erik was already unbuttoning his flannel, shrugging the shirt off, his eyes daring Charles to make some simpering sound.

 

Thick, ropy scars criss-crossed Erik’s torso, bruises marring his biceps and shoulder blades, layer after layer, both fresh and yellowing.

 

“Sign of life,” he said boldly, flexing minutely and tipping his chin up. “If I’m scarring, I’m living.”

 

“What sort of crap is that?” Charles demanded, drawing his cardigan closer.

 

“It’s true.” Erik shrugged. “You don’t scar if you’re dead.”

 

“Your father beats you, Erik. That’s nothing to be proud of.”

 

“I’ve gotten my licks in.”

 

“And that excuses it?”

 

“Are you the pot or the kettle this week?”

 

“I’m not saying—” Charles exhaled sharply through his nose. “I’m not excusing it. Abuse is abuse but I’m not boasting about having scars.”

 

“Because you give yourself yours.” Erik snapped.

 

He regretted it immediately.

 

“Don’t hold back, tell me how you really feel,” Charles said sarcastically, an unfamiliar acid in his voice as he gripped the hems of his sleeves. “I am sorry that my—my _issues_ are a problem for you, Erik. Excuse me for not _handling_ my low points in a more _positive_ manner. So very _sorry_ that I can’t handle myself in a way you find fitting.”

 

“Charles, Charles no.” Erik leaned forward to grip Charles’ shoulders. “That’s not what I meant, that was—that was mean of me. Hey—hey, I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry. That was fucked up. Please don’t cry, Charles, please? I just don’t like the thought of you hurting yourself. Of _anyone_ hurting you.”

 

He lifted a shaky hand to his lips. “Let me see.”

 

It was a testament to Charles’ trust in him as he allowed Erik to undress his upper half.

 

Beneath his layers, Charles was all milk white save the dusky pink of his nipples, hardened by the exposure to air, and the trellis of wounds. His arms were a mottled patchwork of bruises and self-inflicted cuts, most healed to scars but some still scabbing over. Here and there were circular burn scars, the only Erik had ever seen being made, Kurt’s “light” punishment: a cigarette pressed into Charles’ skin. His back was worse, years of beltings leaving criss-crossed scarring that made Erik’s blood boil.

 

Charles looked away, his cheeks burning read.

 

“I told you it was ugly.” He began gathering his shirt back up when Erik pulled him close, kissed his forearm.

 

“You’re beautiful, Charles.” He trailed kisses along scars and bruises up to Charles’ mouth. “Every inch of you.”

 

Fingers ran through overly long chestnut waves. “Please don’t cry,” Erik murmured, “you’re perfect.”

 

Charles kissed as though he’d been revitalized, crawling into Erik’s lap and holding their faces together, moaning when his boyfriend grabbed a handful of ass. He laid back when Erik pushed, not fighting when his jeans were slipped off, though his gaze found itself lingering on a wall as Erik looked at the cuts between his thighs.

 

“Even that?” He asked softly.

 

Erik chuckled, coaxing Charles out of his briefs. “Especially there.”

 

Laid out in Erik’s bed, Charles was otherworldly. His pupils were blown wide, hair tousled and mouth bitten redder than sin. It was impossible to remember the last time he’d wanted someone so maddeningly.

 

“Charles—”

 

“Not today.” Charles tugged him down, smiling. “I want to be ready when we get more—penetrative.”

 

“You’re something else,” Erik murmured, struggling to get his jeans down as Charles began stroking himself in a lazy rhythm, eyes alight with mischief.

 

“Hurry up,” the Brit moaned, “unless you want me to come long before you.”

 

“Shut up,” Erik grunted, batting Charles’ hand away and replacing it with his cock. They slid together with a slick, rasping sound, Erik’s cut length putting Charles’ to shame.

 

“Why did I ever agree to get naked with you?” Charles muttered, though it was cut off in a gasp when Erik unceremoniously flipped him over.

 

“Squeeze your thighs together,” he instructed roughly, already lining his cock up under Charles’, one hand reaching forward to grasp both of them. Charles hastened to comply, hissing at the sting as Erik began thrusting. He jerked his hand in time with the erratic thrusts, panting against Charles’ back.

 

“Can’t wait—to fuck you,” he muttered and Charles moaned into the pillows, fingers grasping at the sheets.

 

With anyone else, Erik would have been ashamed at how quickly he felt his orgasm rushing on. He kissed one freckled shoulder, nipping Charles’ ear. “Give me your hand,” he commanded, forcing his boyfriend to continue jerking them in tandem while he reached to play with those pert nipples. Charles was fighting to stay still, his movements jerky as his hips began pushing back to meet Erik head on.

 

The way his face contorted when he came was lost to the pillow, but Erik could imagine it well enough as cum coated the younger teen’s hand and splashed against the sheets.  It was enough to him come apart, their seed mingling on the covers they collapsed into, gasping.

 

“Erik,” Charles murmured, lifting his head.

 

“Hmm?”

 

“You’re heavy.”

 

They repositioned sluggishly, one of Erik’s arms curling instinctively around Charles’ bare waist, the other boy wiping saliva from his lips before nestling in closer. For a moment, it was as though they were it, contained safely in their own cocoon of unspoken infatuation and silent understanding. The heat between their bodies was all that existed, all that mattered. Charles’ breath ghosting across his chest may have been a summer’s breeze, his skin unexplored terrain, the curls between his legs a grassy knoll. Within themselves, they were All, if only for a heartbeat. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand apologies for the long wait! Between computer issues and personal ones, this took far longer than I wanted to get out. Hopefully the next won't take so long! Thank you to everyone who's stuck with me thus far!!!!

It was that time of the month. Charles woke from a dreamless sleep and tucked his pride away, folded it up into a neat little square and stored it in the dusty recesses of his mind.

 

Once the little ones had been seen off to school—Cain agreeing, as he did every month, to walk with them—and Kurt had gone out, Charles settled in on his bed (the lumpy sofa) with his rolodex. The thing was getting on in years, cards beginning to tear from all the flipping, but it remained as he flicked to the first contact, GREY, JOHN. Phone in one hand, chipped mug in the other, he dialed.

 

There was something singularly spirit-slaughtering about having to beg for court-mandated child support every month. Having to remind the men whose engagement rings Mother still held onto—though Charles had repeatedly asked to pawn them—about the children they’d sired was exhausting. Especially knowing John and Norton had both moved on, the former now father to four more children. Yet neither could be bothered to visit their little ones.

 

Charles slumped against the cushions, listening to John complain about money and taking to simply repeating, “it’s court-mandated, John” until his former step-father waspishly agreed to meet him the following day with a check for the girls. Never did he ask after the twins, request to see them, it was, all in all, a bloodless transaction. An exchange of goods.

 

Norton McCoy was, at least, easier to deal with. The nuclear technician had been a far sight younger than Sharon, a dalliance turned marriage turned baby turned divorce all wrapped up within the span of two years. He was a kind sort, only barely into his thirties and recently married to a nice young woman who had met Hank thrice and seemed to like the precocious boy well enough.

 

That didn’t, of course, mean wringing money out of him was much easier. Norton had a habit of forgetting to answer his phone and Edna a habit of forgetting to give him phone messages, so it was a good three hours of phone tag before he finally got Norton on the line.

 

“Charlie-boy!” Norton said pleasantly and Charles made himself smile through the overly-familiar greeting.

 

“Norton, how are you?”

 

“I’m well. How’s Hank?”

 

“He’s well. In school, currently.”

 

“Still making straight A’s?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Thattaboy.”

 

“Indeed.” Charles tried to ignore the surge of agitation as though Norton helped Hank in any way, as though he were the one up running flashcards with him, but—it did no good to be so bitter. “So I was hoping you knew what I was calling about.”

 

“Child support day?”

 

“It is that one.”

 

There was rustling on the other end, a muffled, _“Edna, where’s my checkbook?”_ likely the result of fingers over the receiver. Shuffling sounds broke in for a good three minutes before Norton returned.

 

“Can I mail it?” He asked, as though this weren’t the same conversation as the previous month. Charles sighed away from the phone and massaged the bridge of his nose.

 

“Yes,” he grunted before rattling off the address and stamp amount. “And please make sure the check doesn’t bounce this time.”

 

“I’ll try.”

 

“Please just do.”

 

“Sure thing, kiddo.” There was a strain in Norton’s voice, likely from being called out. “Well, er, if that’s all—”

 

“Good day, Norton.” Charles pressed his lips together as he hung up and stretched out, flipping to his least favorite number.

 

XAVIER, BRIAN.

 

In all the years he’d attempted to call his father, only twice had Brian answered the phone, only to go through stilted, impersonal motions. Any attempted had been thwarted thereafter, leaving him either getting the runaround from his father’s secretary or speaking to the answering machine.

 

Today was—he cringed to think it—fortunately the latter. Even after years away, hearing Brian Xavier’s rumbling baritone across the phone brought him back to his childhood in the opulent manor, climbing bookshelves and tearing across the lawn. He could still smell his father and taste the rich foods but it did no use now.

 

_“—call you back as soon as I am able,”_ the message concluded and then the beep.

 

“Hi, Dad, it’s me. Charles, I should say. Charles Xavier, er, it’s that time of the month, and I was rather hoping you could send money for Raven. I hope you’re well, Dad. You know, at the rate I’m going, I could be done with school by the next year.—I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but, um, yeah. I, uh, I love you, Dad. Alright . . . bye.”

 

Charles exhaled everything he had in a gust, tossing the phone across the room and into the other sofa, covering his face and shaking as he tried to regain control of his breathing. He held his mouth clamped shut and eyes squeezed tightly together, body curling in on itself. This was never supposed to be his life. He wanted his daddy and so badly to be a child again and not have to worry about paying bills and making sure everyone ate. He wanted to be irresponsible and to have room to fuck up.

 

He wanted.

 

Charles tried to breathe, in and out, smooth.

 

When he opened his eyes, everything was aching from drifting off in a fetal position. Joints cracking, he stretched out and blinked back into awareness, surprised to see Kurt on the opposite couch relaxing with a beer.

 

Seeming to feel eyes on him, Kurt looked away from the water-stained ceiling and met Charles’ gaze.

 

“Alright, kid?” His voice was gruff, unpleasant, but unusually friendly.

 

“Yeah, I just . . . I guess I drifted off,” Charles mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

 

“Child support day?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Everyone gonna pay?”

 

“I certainly hope so.”

 

“Good.” Kurt smirked. “Got some grocery money.” He held up a wad of money secured by a money clip.

 

“Winning streak?” Charles guessed and his step-father grinned the same dopey grin he associated with Cain. Kurt’s gambling had long been a point of contention between him and Sharon, who was violently against it when she was sober enough to protest it. The only upside was the generous moods Kurt fell into when he was winning.

 

Charles couldn’t help smiling as he tucked the clip into his pocket. If Norton and John came through all should be well. The only one he could truly depend on was his father. Despite his lack of communications, a check showed up every month like clockwork. With Kurt’s added winnings . . .

 

For a moment, Charles’ heart felt light. 


End file.
